


The Art of Not Having Sex

by misscam



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-02
Updated: 2007-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscam/pseuds/misscam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They're definitely doing it. It's just not sex.</i> [Ten/Rose, Ten/Martha, Ten/Master, implied Barbara/Ian]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Not Having Sex

**Author's Note:**

> References to The Age of Steel and Fear Her. Slightly AU for The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords. Thanks to lyricalviolet for beta.

The Art of Not Having Sex  
aka Five Times the Doctor Used Euphemisms and One Time He Didn't  
by **misscam**

Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.

II

Barbara and Ian don't have sex, the Doctor knows.

They're British, ever so correct and careful. They're human, living on water, oxygen and hormones. They're of an age that still whispers of sexuality and doesn't broadcast it into space. They're schoolteachers, used to shielding truth before age kills innocence. They're decent, morals and heart wired firmly together. Oh no, Barbara and Ian don't have sex.

The Doctor is still pretty convinced they're "comforting" each other. "Comparing notes". Seeing each other "after school". Being a bit "French" in all the Britishness. "Having tea". "Retiring to bed early."

Once, they even retired twice in the same evening.

They're definitely doing it. It's just not sex.

Words carry burdens beyond their meaning, and that one in particular. Perhaps one day they'll marry, and they'll have sex. That age. Those morals. Ever these humans.

Barbara and Ian don't have sex, the Doctor knows, but they teach him a lot about the alternatives.

II

It's a Tuesday in London and the Tyler flat, and this isn't a day the Doctor will have sex with Rose Tyler on. Oh no.

But in ten minutes he will be reversing the flow of her polarity.

The thing is, see, yes the thing, oh man, he's forgotten the thing because the thing cannot possibly be having Rose Tyler's tongue down his throat. Can it?

It quite definitely is in his mouth, though, tracing the lines of his teeth, and her lips are pressed against his, warm and a little hesitant. He can feel her pulse, a steady beat of one heart. Just one heart. Silly little humans, just one heart.

Rose's is slightly broken. Mickey, he knows. Pete. A world that isn't hers, but has taken some of what she wants. So she's seeking a little comfort in what she has. That makes sense. Yes, that makes sense! He's getting better at this human-sense-thing.

That still doesn't explain why he's pushed a hand up her skirt, of course. It can't be just because Jackie Tyler isn't here and he can. Can it?

Rose wriggles slightly against him as he removes her knickers, a few strands of hair clinging to the perspiration on her face. Her eyes are slightly unfocused as he tilts her further back on the sofa and he wishes he couldn't read her mind from the expression on her face. Rose, oh Rose.

Rose's heart is slightly broken, and he knows one day he's going to finish the job.

He tries not to look, moving to kiss her knee instead, and upwards, a line of kisses against her thigh and upwards; until she whimpers and clutches his hair and he can feel all the blood in her body rush down.

"Doctor," she whispers, lifting her head slightly. "Doctor... Oh, fuck."

He doesn't let up, flesh so warm against his mouth and his mind registering everything. The temperature in her skin. The pitch of her voice. The pattern of catches in her breath. The lines of her back as she strains against him. The whiteness of her lower lip as she bites down on it, hard. The tension in her whole body as she comes, and the stillness right after.

Human orgasms. Those never do seem to change, even when humans do, but he doesn’t know that. Oh no.

After all, he never has sex.

II

The Doctor would never shag Rose Tyler up against a brick wall while a radio is broadcasting the Olympic javelin throw somewhere nearby. Oh no.

But he seems to be enjoying some javelin action himself.

Rose is panting, her jacket discarded and yellow top pushed up enough to let him kiss the top side of her breasts. He is panting too, hands on her buttocks to steady her as he thrusts. They're almost in sync, almost but not quite. She'll sometimes inhale on his exhale and he'll sometimes hold his breath on her exhale. Just not quite a match.

Never will be with a human and a Time Lord, he knows. But it's all he has now.

Rose clutches his tie, obviously having given up on removing it, using it instead to pull his head level with hers. Her face is beaming, and he can tell in this moment, on this day, she is happy. She doesn't feel tomorrow.

He does, and he wonders if she can feel the desperation in his kiss as his teeth scrape against her lower lip and time dances around them like slightly excited atoms. His dance. Always his dance. It's just not his music, and he has a feeling a change of tune is coming.

Her inhale, his exhale and she touches his face as he comes, trying to make it as human as possible and ignoring that the radio has talked excitedly about the same javelin throw twice. Time repeated is not time stopped and Rose hides her face against his shoulder, her cheeks burning.

"What was that?" she whispers, and he just holds her, not replying.

He hasn't just had an orgasm with Rose Tyler's legs around his hips, after all. No, he never has sex.

He's just getting into the Olympic spirit.

II

The Doctor would never dream of having sex with Martha Jones. Oh no.

But in five minutes they're going to be playing doctor and nurse, and he'll never quite figure out who the nurse is.

"Oh, I know all about breasts," the Doctor says confidently, and just with the slight air of supreme knowledge he's worked so hard on. "Did you know that a Martindale Hive Mother can have up to sixty-seven of them? Marvelous things!"

"Breasts or Martindale Hive Mothers?" Martha asks, looking like she isn't sure which she would prefer.

"Both," he replies after a moment, grinning cheekily.

"That's all well and good, Doctor," she counters, adopting his slight air of supreme knowledge, "but that doesn't explain _why_ you had your hand down my top."

He thinks. "It was cold?"

"My breasts are not hand-warmers."

"What are they, then?" he quips before he can help himself, and knows instantly he's been very silly. But then, he always liked that.

She stares at him, then she takes hold of her shirt and peels it off in one movement. The bra gets unhooked just as quickly and he finds himself looking at Martha's breasts.

"Breasts," she says in a lecturing tone, reaching out to take his hand and putting it on the left one.

"Right," he agrees, feeling a nipple harden against his palm. "Breasts."

She nods, pushing his hands further down and he lets a finger circle her navel.

"Stomach," she says.

"Right," he agrees again.

She almost topples over when trying to get out of her jeans in a dignified manner, but quickly regains composure and puts his hand on her now uncovered thigh.

"Thigh," he says.

"Right," she agrees and inhales when he moves his hand just slightly. "Vagina."

"Right," he agrees, and they stand still for a moment, a strange tableau until she lifts his hand to her face.

"Martha," she says firmly. " _Martha_."

"Right," he agrees, and closes his eyes as she kisses him, opening them again only to see hers closed as he lifts her up. Not quite in sync. Never is. But it is what it is.

The Doctor doesn't have sex with Martha Jones, but he does give her a proper physical. One Doctor to another.

It's only professional courtesy, after all.

II

The Doctor would never fancy the Master, oh no.

But he can find comfort in skin that is like his.

The Master is demanding in his touch, taking more than giving and his fingers constantly tapping a rhythm across skin. Dum. Dum-dum. Dum. Never stopping, only moving to another bit of skin. From chest to hips to cheek to chest again. It's almost a heartbeat.

The Doctor wonders whose, but knows it isn't his. His is a storm, growing every time the Master kisses him, seeming to drown out everything else hands knead him and demand.

Tomorrow, they'll be enemies again. Tomorrow, it's saving the Earth.

Today, it's two of a kind.

"Mine," the Master whispers, eyes burning as he turns around and lies on his stomach, waiting. Yielding, but only to have more power. "Yours."

"Mine," the Doctor agrees.

There isn't anyone else to claim it, after all. This isn't sex. This is desperation. Twice.

II

The Doctor would never sneak in someone's bedroom window to have one last fuck, oh no.

But he is making the bed a-rocking, so don't come a-knocking.

Martha's hair is loose, framing her face as she straddles him and slowly lowers herself. He can see her bite her lip as she controls her own reaction, so very careful now, not giving him more than she already has. Maybe she feels he has power enough. Maybe he does, and lets her set the pace. Even when it's so slow he thinks he might go a little mad and when it does pick up he knows he is.

Martha Jones. Oh, he sees. He sees her nails burrowing into his skin, leaving red marks fading to white. He sees her lips be swollen from kisses and feel his own long for the touch again. He sees her breasts move as she does. He sees her hair brush against her shoulder and imagines it must tickle. He sees the pulse in her throat, beating, beating.

He feels it too, growing to a roar as he lifts himself up and kisses her.

Martha Jones. Oh yes, he sees.

"What's this, a goodbye shag?" she whispers, breath ragged.

"Just a goodbye," he says. "Martha Jones."

"You should have said that more," she says, eyes dark. "I didn't leave just because I didn't get this."

"I know," he says, and thinks he does. They all leave him. It's just the excuses that change.

He touches her temple and she shudders, eyes closed as he feels time in her come to a still.

This isn't sex. This is just seeing.

After all, he owes her that.

II

Barbara and Ian do have sex, the Doctor knows. It would be hard to explain where the kid came from otherwise.

It's a normal day in London, in a normal time - after he's fixed it, at least - and he notices two familiar faces in the crowd he's definitely seen before. And one that is familiar even if he's never seen it before. Barbara and Ian's kid. There's enough of them both in the face for the Doctor to know that.

A child.

They don't seem to recognise him, walking right past as he stares, feeling something like happiness. Maybe it's just an echo of theirs he's feeling, but it doesn't matter. They're happy. After all he showed them, they're happy now. Martha will be happy. Rose will be happy. In silence, maybe even the Master is.

He can believe that. He can. He must.

Barbara and Ian. They were always having sex, he knows. They just defined it the way they wanted to to live with themselves. They learned that from him.

After all, he's always fucked around and lived with it.

II

FIN


End file.
